Saturday 3 November, 3.59 p.m.
‘My feet are cold. Please. Can I have my slippers back?’
Some hope, Chi thought.
Zac’s voice wafted up from the bottom of the crevice. ‘Bring them back. They are my slippers, you know.’
She looked around her. It was dusk already, the place acquiring a sickly gloom.
Debs heard the squad car come screaming up the road and back up, out of sight, nudging into the entrance to a field. She ducked out of sight as it passed.
Joanna saw the car and radioed the number in. And then the three of them pulled up in a layby, leaving Dawn Critchlow in the driver’s seat.
They pulled on Day-Glo tabards and armed themselves with a silver survival blanket, a thermos and waterproof boots before trudging along the track towards Lud’s Church, flashing torches into the undergrowth as they went. They skirted the rim of trees and came out into the open countryside crossing a stretch of open moorland. DC Alan King flashed his light and picked up on the first slipper. ‘Bag it up and take a look around,’ Joanna said. ‘I should head straight on to Lud’s Church just in case he’s there.’
So she and PC Jason Spark continued, calling as they walked.
There is a softness about the November countryside at dusk. Footsteps are muted; rain drips adding a rhythm to the scene. If you listen enough there are other sounds too: a mouse scuttling beneath the dying bracken or a buzzard calling overhead. Even its cries are less harsh, less predatory, less threatening. In the far distance a barn owl hooted.
Joanna had doubted there was any truth in the story. It was someone who wanted the sensation of having diverted the police, played a trick on them. But seeing the slipper raised some questions. Afterwards she might reason with herself and understand it all right from the beginning. Had the missing man been less vulnerable, had the time been an hour or two earlier, had the area been less remote, she might have made a different decision. Not to plunge in. She might have spent more time wondering. Why the false name? Just another attention-seeker? But this shabby brown slipper was the first tangible evidence that had turned up since Zac had disappeared. Not to have followed up this lead, had the caller been telling the truth, would have resulted in disciplinary action, accusations of negligence.
‘There’s the other one.’
‘OK, Jason. Take a look around and get it bagged up.’ This was strange. And concentrated her feeling that she was being led into a trap. Watchful now and alert in spite of her bulk, she increased her pace. There wasn’t much daylight left and she didn’t want to be out here after dark. Even with Jason and Alan King, who would soon catch her up.
She would rather have had Korpanski. Would have felt safer with Korpanski. They hardly needed to communicate when in a situation like this. Working with someone day in day out, each knew what was in the other’s mind.
She quickened her pace again, anxious to be back at the car. She might have a torch but it was easy to lose your way, become disorientated and lost. Behind her she could hear the two officers rustling through the undergrowth, calling out his name.
As she was doing. ‘Mr Foster. Hello. Are you there?’
She thought she heard a whimper and began to run. Or had it just been a sigh of the wind making its presence felt as it blew through the trees? She couldn’t be sure. The rain was soft and sly now, sliding down the needles, pooling on the path to create slippery mud puddles.
She must not fall.
She stepped forward, out into the clearing where the top of the flight of steps led towards Lud’s Church. And then, ahead of her, down, cowering in the crevice, she saw him. Collapsed, crying against the stones. Her natural instinct overran caution. She started down the steps. ‘Mr Foster?’ She could hardly believe it. Was this place, with its history, now playing tricks with her mind? She slithered down further steps. ‘Mr Foster?’
He looked sick and terrified. Not at her but at something behind her, something hidden behind a rock. And in a flash it all made sense. Mike’s accident, the abduction of an old man, the continued disappearance, the phone call so late in the day. Too slowly, Joanna turned around and recognized Kath Whalley. This, then, was the missing connection.
She didn’t waste time asking any questions because Kath was holding a long knife against her throat.
All police officers are trained in self-defence. You duck. You slide away, you do the unexpected. You hit out at vulnerable, painful areas. Joanna knew all this. But she was bulky and slow now and Kath’s knife was now pointing down towards her belly.
Kath spoke into her ear. ‘I don’t exactly have a degree in midwifery,’ she said. ‘Or obstetrics, but I reckon I can manage a caesarean section just as easy as the next guy.’
She pulled open Joanna’s coat and stroked the knife down her baby bulge. Pressed it into her sweater, eyes meeting hers. Joanna felt the prick of the knife, the baby kick as though to defend itself – if its mother could or would not.
Joanna’s first thought was that Matthew would be furious.
Her second thought was sheer terror as she felt the knife pressed harder against her baby. And the child stopped moving. She actually looked down to see the ooze of blood.
Her third instinct searched desperately for the application of her self-defence training.
And then something else happened which Joanna couldn’t understand at first. Something she had never felt before.
Yes, she was scared. Terrified, as Kath Whalley moved her face next to hers. She smelt stale cider and cigarettes and almost retched as Kath whispered in her ear, while behind her she caught the gasp of horror from the old man. Kath’s yellow spittle landed on her neck. Joanna took some deep, gasping breaths and felt her heart rock inside her chest, panic making her dizzy. But in the next moment that paralysis of fright was swamped by a wave of fury and protectiveness towards the child she held in her womb. Her training flew in to help. She turned around and lashed out with extended fingers, straight into Kath’s eyes. She felt their soft wetness at the same time as she screamed, ‘You will not hurt this child!’
Kath’s response was to press the knife harder and Joanna knew it was now or never. The baby would not survive this onslaught.
She roared and, in the same moment, almost in the same smooth action, she drew back her hand before holding it rigid and angling it upwards right underneath Kath’s nose. A surprisingly painful area, the instructor had said. So don’t try it except on people you really want to hurt.
And she really did want to hurt her. This criminal, this psychopath, this monster of a woman who wanted to murder her baby. The spurt of blood pouring from her nostrils on to the rocks was a welcome sight and only fed her hatred. She grabbed the knife and held it against Kath’s throat. In that moment Joanna knew she could easily kill her. Kath was tough but not quite that tough. And she hadn’t expected Joanna to fight back. Not with this intensity. She was like a mad thing. She staggered back and Joanna heard voices.
Jason Spark and Alan King had caught up and were already on their radios. Kath was neatly cuffed, Zachary Foster had a police-issue waterproof wrapped around his shoulders.
Chi slipped away, as slinky as a cat.